Yara
I’m laughing as I watch a little boy who looks just like Warren running through the grass, laughing happily as his father chases after him.
“I’m going to get you,” Warren calls.
“No, you not!” the boy squeals and tries to run faster on his chubby little toddler legs. I smile, looking down at the baby in my arms, nursing as I rock her back and forth. She has my auburn hair, but as she looks up at me, I see her father’s brownish-green eyes looking back at me.
A howl of attack goes up and I’m jerked back into a dark room.
“Yara, hurry, we’re under attack!” Warren says.
“Our babies! Where are our babies?” I ask, frantic to make sure they are safe. I look around disoriented that we’re in our bedroom and it’s dark when we were just outside playing on a sunny, picturesque day.
Warren’
